


cogito, ergo sum

by MathildaHilda



Series: until the end of infinity [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, I'm so sorry, Lots of Whump, POV Second Person, because when isn't there Tony!whump, stony (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:07:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathildaHilda/pseuds/MathildaHilda
Summary: Someone, somewhere, named you Icarus after New York and it made you hide your head in your hands and try not to think about the vastness of space.Icarus fell hard and far and he, just like you, came close enough to burn.





	cogito, ergo sum

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to start this off by saying that I'm heartbroken over the death of Stan Lee. He's always been there and been the heart of Marvel for so long and to see him gone is just so sad, but I know that no matter what he'll always live on in spirit and in the hearts of everyone, and I know that I wouldn't be where I am today if it hadn't been for his fantastic imagination!
> 
> Excelsior!

Stark men are made of iron your father used to say.

But you, if anyone, know that that’s not true.

On the inside you are blood and bone and palladium and new elements your father never knew.

On the outside, you are titanium and flesh and nanites and too many scars and bruises to count.

But both inside and out, you’re a reactor ready to melt and set the whole world on fire.

Someone, somewhere, named you Icarus after New York and it made you hide your head in your hands and try not to think about the vastness of space.

Icarus fell hard and far and he, just like you, came close enough to burn.

 

 

 

Yinsen was the only one who treated you like a human in Afghanistan. To everyone else,  _to_   _Obie_ , you were nothing more than a lifelike machine, created to manufacture the weapons that could kill everything.

You find it a bit ironic that you almost died by your own creation, your own name staring back at you before moments later blowing you into the sand of the desert and digging itself snug in your heart.

(Rhodey said later, when he wandered your hospital room with a chart in his hands, that it was a damn miracle that you even survived, but that nothing made him happier than to have you back to hound his ass.)

You find it very ironic when you fight off Palladium poisoning, Ultron and your own damn team. You find it even more ironic that the very things that you created are the things trying to bring you down.

You beat two out of three, and that’s more than good enough.

That’s fucking great, you think when you put Ross on hold for the third time that day.

 

 

 

(You find them on a hill wrapped in darkness and stars and the thick blanket of death and you don’t see the red dancing at the edge of your vision.

Broken arrows, broken guns, and a broken shield, and it breaks your already broken heart.)

 

 

 

Losing Jarvis 1.0 was the second hardest blow of your life, close second to the loss of your Mom, and it made you drown in a bottle and ignore any duties you had to your father’s company.

Losing Jarvis 2.0 was like someone tore something from your chest, sewed it back together and stuffed it back into place and then rip out everything that was left when Vision came to life under Thor’s hammer; his eyes your machinery and his voice one of your best friends.

FRIDAY was good, of course she was, but she wasn’t Jarvis in the same way that Vision was half of him and half of you ( _half of Ultron_ ) and wandered the Compound with a voice that a piece of you wanted to hide away and lock up.

You like the AI and the robot, how could you not, but they’re not Jarvis.

 

 

 

The meaning of the pile of paper that Ross dumps on your desk weighs almost as much as the city you failed to save.

The meaning of the Accords break you damn heart when you stare at Steve and all you see is yet another person you’ve lost to another cause.

(You don’t lose him. Not really. But right then, right there, it feels like you did.)

 

 

 

Rhodey falls through the skies and you do your best to reach him, but you can’t. The ground is too close and coming too fast and you try so hard to keep tears away until FRIDAY tells you his vitals are okay and that he’ll live.

She doesn’t tell you what'll comes next.

(You don’t tell Rhodey how you cried by his bed because he never told you how he cried in your workshop when you didn’t come back.)

You glare at Sam, the man’s face one of pure shock and fear and you don’t blame him. You don’t blame Vision either.

You just blame yourself.

And maybe Steve. Even if it's only just a little bit.

 

 

 

_He killed Mom._

_He killed Mom._

It’s a mantra in your head. The only thing that keeps you from sinking to your knees and cry all over again is Steve beside you and the lowered gun of the man who killed your Mom.

There’s fury and grief and you lash out and when you hold Barnes in a headlock and he whispers that he  _remembers them_ , that he  _remembers all of them_ , your mantra stops. Even if it’s only for a second and that this man killed your Mom,  _and that he confessed_ , it’s enough to bring you down.

They leave you bloodied and bruised and aching in Siberian winter and when you call FRIDAY for assistance, you don’t really care that they left or that they left you alive.

You stare at the shield and hold it in a broken gauntlet, stare at chipped colors where T’Challa’s claws dug through and heaves it with you back to the entrance, past old truths and past mistakes and past reminders of a past best stayed buried.

 

 

 

You don’t put two and two together until you see a cracked Iron Man mask lying hastily hidden under a pile of clothes in a teenager’s bedroom, carefully taped together one too many times. You don’t put it together right away, but eventually it’s clear as day and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the Universe.

(The Universe hands you a kid, probably to be kind, but you don’t thank the Universe when the kid floats away under your fingers.)

 

 

 

It’s over before it begins and it begins long before you can see the end and it numbs you to your very core, because the pain is making it hard to breathe and the kid is looking at you and assessing the damage done when it should be  _you_  assessing  _him_.

You see the answers in Strange’s eyes, but you don’t believe him until it’s too late and you’re holding onto dust that slips through bloodstained fingers and seeps into every scar and crack in your skin.

It’s too late, you know, and there’s something  _wrong_ with the Universe. Half of it is gone, floating through the winds like confetti or snow or embers or rain and  _you’re still here_.

The Universe owes you nothing, yet it owes you everything. You’re not dead, yet, and the injustice of it all, of the fate of the innocent  _(of Peter)_ , makes the numbness deepen and threaten to swallow you whole.

 

 

 

You look at your hand, sees the dust and the cracks they create in the lines of your palms, but you don’t see anything different. You only see dirt and blood and death, but you don’t feel anything.

There’s a numbness inside your chest and in your arm and you don’t understand why until you see that you’re the one it left behind.

The blue woman sits down, her voice a pitch below grief and drops the remnants of her blade to wring her hands and you bury your head in yours, because you can’t bear to look at the Universe.

 

 

 

You’re Tony Fucking Stark.

You should be dead.

But you’re not.

You should be floating in the air and dance between rotten leaves and cracked rocks and feel peace, for once in your life.

You’re Tony Fucking Stark.

You’re alive.

 

 

 

It’s not fucking fair.

**Author's Note:**

> This one took longer than expected, but I'm quite happy with the result!
> 
> Title by René Descartes  
> English translation of title; "I think, therefore I am."
> 
> Comments and kudos and whatnot keeps these fingers writing, so I'd love to know what you think!


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